


In Solitude, We Weep

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Allusions to the 'tryst' that shall not be named, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-season 7, Sansa POV, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: With her surviving siblings returning so drastically different from who they once were, Sansa wishes Jon was home to help her cope. But the longer he is away, the more Sansa wonders if he actually cares about her.





	In Solitude, We Weep

The ghost of Ramsay breathed down Sansa’s neck as she attended to her duties for the rest of the day. Bran meant well. She knew that as she left him under the Heart Tree in the castle’s godswood. He just wasn’t himself. How could he be if he saw such terrible things?

Sansa hated that Ramsay still had such a powerful hold on her, even after all this time. Her busy days usually kept her memory from wandering too far back to relive the horrors she suffered at his hands. Actually, with Jon gone, her mind was being pulled in so many different directions, it really didn’t have much scope to wander.

In Jon’s absence, she had tried to be strong as the Lady of Winterfell—someone her people could look up to. Someone they admired as much as their king, trusted with their welfare as much as they did Jon. She did her job well, that too with a smile on her face. And while she earned the north’s respect, she longed to see the pride on Jon’s face. _I didn’t let you down, Jon,_ she whispered into the dark, every night before succumbing to sleep.

She missed him. Terribly. Yes, he drove her up the wall—making impulsive decisions without discussing them with her, not throwing enough caution to dangers looming to the south, at times dismissing her knowledge of southron politics. But he was someone she could speak with freely. Someone she could open her heart to.

Someone who could chase the memories of Ramsay with some stupid remark about embroidered wolves.

After supper, she ordered a flagon of hot mulled ale be brought to her solar to take the edge off. She drank it sitting before the hearth, and coughed. Just like she had that first night she’d arrived at Castle Black. Jon’s responding laugh—the crow’s feet forming at the corner of his eyes, the warm twinkle in them—made Sansa smile. The chilling ghost of Ramsay dissipated, and her blood warmed once more.

She wished Jon was there with her. Not just because he’d be happy to see Bran again, but to help her understand their little brother. To perhaps get through to him. The man who returned that morning was a shell of the cheeky boy always eager to please, always riling mother up but somehow remaining her favorite. Sansa had been overwhelmed to see him again. After Rickon, she was sure she’d never have the good fortune of seeing him or Arya again.

But Bran? It didn’t matter that Sansa had come bounding at him. _She_ didn’t matter to him.

Another sip of mulled wine and Sansa closed her eyes. She drew on the memory of being cradled in Jon’s strong arms after arriving at Castle Black. It was the first time she’d felt safe—loved—in years. In the days and months that followed, while they were on the road rallying their bannermen, she was only a touch away from remembering she was home. They had no castle, but Jon was home enough.

When the battle was won and their hold on the north restored, Jon grew distant. He had been named king. And Sansa had taken up her mother’s duties. Her mother—a woman who despised Jon. Did Sansa remind him of her as she went about the castle? Is that why he always stood at arm’s length when they were on their own? Jon may have been stronger than her and not needed it, but she craved his touch—to root her in reality, to tell her she was home and safe, to promise her that he _would_ protect her.

He had promised. And she had put her faith in him.

But fate didn’t answer to them. It snatched him away from her to Dragonstone. To meet with a woman whose ferocity and beauty had already earned her a reputation this side of the narrow sea. Breaker of chains, they called her. Would Jon give Sansa a second thought in the presence of such power?

Her breaths labored and her self-worth crumbling, Sansa abandoned her half-emptied flagon and dressed for bed. Tears soaked the neckline of her night rail as she climbed into bed. She scolded herself for allowing such thoughts to riddle her when there was so much requiring her attention. Besides, Jon would never give up on the North. That was all that mattered. _She_ didn’t.

***

When the guards stumbled into her solar mumbling about a girl asking for Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, Sansa felt that familiar surge of joy she felt when she received news of Bran. In her race down to the crypts, her sensible side—the side that had ensured her survival time and time again—told her to slow down. To manage expectations. The days spent alone with the stranger Bran had become had left her desperate, though. _This time will be different_ , she hoped. _Please be different._

Her heart plummeted as soon as she caught sight of her sister—grown, somber, feral; an untamed wolf. She smothered the first thrums of panic. Masked it with warmth and drew Arya in for a hug. Jon would have done the same. Jon would have been so happy to see her home.

Nothing. Arya stood rigid in her arms, her face as blank as Bran’s. Perhaps she wished it was Jon welcoming her instead. Sansa wouldn’t have been surprised. Arya and Jon shared a bond she could never share with him. Because she was dainty and girlish. Because she was _just_ Sansa.

She studied Arya’s face as they exchanged stilted words— _Everyone who knew father’s face is dead. Our story isn’t over yet—_ and was appalled by her own thoughts. Here she was getting angry, maybe even jealous, when _her sister_ was back home. When the last living Starks were all back at Winterfell. She should have been grateful.

When Arya pulled her in for another hug, this time in earnest, she _was_ grateful. _I can bring her back,_ she thought. _I can make everything better._

***

Arya’s list didn’t surprise Sansa. She wanted Joffrey dead too…and Cersei. And Janos Slynt. She got her chance with Ramsay. It felt liberating at first—the sight of his hounds devouring him. But no amount of pain she inflicted on him erased what he’d done to her. She could have killed him a thousand times over, and the shame and nightmares would have persisted regardless. She didn’t regret setting the dogs on him. No. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._ She couldn’t use a sword, so bloodthirsty hounds had to suffice.

Arya, though…She knew how to swing a blade. And Gods knew how many other weapons. She was lithe, precise, and cunning. Jaw slack with awe, Sansa tried her best not to cheer for her as she watched Arya spar with Brienne. She couldn’t risk Littlefinger sensing her true feelings. She didn’t want him to know a thing about her. Not after all the horrid things he’d done. Not until she knew how to get rid of him.

She walked away before Arya looked up and saw her. Before their eyes met and Sansa’s restraint was undone by a proud smile. _If only Jon could see,_ she thought on her way back to her solar. He’d told her about giving Arya Needle before they left for King’s Landing. When Sansa wondered aloud why Arya had never told her who’d given it to her, he had shrugged and said, “We thought you’d tattle.”

Sansa’s chest tightened at the memory. They’d regarded her as nothing more than a tattler.   _He’d_ seen her as nothing more.

 _Stop it,_ that rational voice inside her scolded, _stop pitying yourself this instant, Sansa Stark._

She couldn’t help it. Not with Jon being gone so many moons. She had wanted to turn to him on so many occasions. Ask him what he made of the changes in Arya. Ask him to speak to her, keep an eye on her, so she didn’t wind up doing something reckless in her quest for vengeance. She wouldn’t have been so frightened to ask for Arya’s trust if Jon had been at her side.

A low serpentine voice hissed from her heart, _Will Jon stand by your side?_

Would he? She wasn’t sure. Sansa believed what she said to Arya in the crypts. Jon would be happier to see Arya than he was to see her. Why wouldn’t he be? Arya had always been his favorite. And now that Arya was an exemplary swordswoman...Sansa imagined it would be difficult to get a word in between the two, let alone his full, undivided, all-consuming attention.

Jon was a man of action. He never cared much for chivalry or dances or silk dresses. Sansa knew her work and presence were essential to the smooth running of the castle and securing of the north, but she knew it would never be enough to earn his adoration. Not the way Arya readily had it. Tormund had told Sansa about Ygritte, Jon’s Wildling lover. She sounded a lot like Arya. And nothing like her.

Perhaps she was better off if he didn’t come back.

 _Maybe your prayers will be answered,_ the serpentine voice sang.

 _No!_ She didn’t mean to think it. The north was doomed without Jon. If the Night King did breach the Wall, he was the only one capable of leading them through the Long Night. He was her king and savior. He had trusted her with the north—with his home. Their home. Of course she would welcome him back with open arms. And if he didn’t care for her as much he did Arya or Bran, so be it. Their natures conflicted too much. She would still be safe with her family. There were worse fates one could suffer.

***

Ghost’s anguished, unrelenting howls were the first signs that something terrible was afoot. Sansa kept him close. She had not received word from Jon since he set out for Eastwatch. Bran had seen the Night King’s army—thousands of white walkers, some of them giants. Too many for Jon and the Brothers of the Night’s Watch to fight. Jon had instructed her to rally the northern houses at Winterfell. To wait for his word before sending any men further north. His silence set her teeth on edge. _Is he still alive?_

Then one night, she felt thunder in her bones. The snow hardened plains of the north carried the roar of the Wall’s collapse to Winterfell, and sent violent tremors up the castle’s sturdy walls of stone. Sansa thought her heart would give out in fright. This was it. The Night King was coming for them all.

She masked the panic gnawing at her day and night, and maintained order as more and more bannermen and small folk flocked into the castle for protection. Though her task ahead was simple, she doubted how long she could carry on with a brave face. Arya and Bran were more specters than siblings. If they noticed momentary slips in her composure, they ignored it. She would have fared better if she was more like them. But to her utter despair, she wasn’t.

All day, she assured men old enough to be her father they would get through this, but nobody returned the gesture. A lady of a great house required no such assurances. But Sansa would have liked some. From Jon. If he were present. How she wished he’d return, only for a moment, to give her the strength to carry on.

As if hearing her muffled hiccups from weeping all night long, Jon arrived at Wintertown from the east atop a green dragon. A ranger took a horse out to him and guided him back to the castle. Windswept, battered, and covered in snow, he stifled a pained groan when he dismounted. His balance faltering, the ranger caught hold of him and held him steady. He was hurt.

Yet, he cracked a smile as Arya leapt into his arms. Relief washed over him, pure love shone in his eyes. There was joy in his voice when he spoke to her, remarked on Needle and Catspaw at her waist.

It all disappeared when his eyes found Sansa. In an instant, he grew somber, pain etched alongside the scars on his face. He couldn’t hold her gaze for long. The muddied snow at her feet seemed comelier. His voice was low and hoarse. “Sansa.”

All her fears realized, Sansa forced a small smile. She could barely hide her heartbreak. “It’s good to see you, Jon.”

Her words hung in the air. He dared peek up at her face but averted his eyes immediately after. Swallowing the sobs simmering in her chest, Sansa stepped forward. Her hands rose to touch him. He flinched and stumbled back.

_Oh…_

Her whole body went rigid. It was a miracle she didn’t drop to her knees and fold onto the dirty snow.

“You’ll want to see Bran,” she managed through her bleary vision.

Sansa led the way to the godswood. Trailing behind, Arya inundated Jon with questions about the flying beast circling Wintertown. His name was Rhaegal. He breathed real fire just as in the stories. Dany rode Drogon who was a good bit larger than Rhaegal. She’d ridden him into battle against the Lannisters, and rescued him and his men when they were ambushed by white walkers north of the Wall.

Dany. _Dany._

 _But of course Dany rides her dragons onto the battlefield. Just as Arya wields a sword and staff. Just as Ygritte hunted with her bow and arrow. And you?_ Sansa’s stomach churned. _Will you stab the white walkers with your sewing needle? With your sacks of grain?_

Bran was unfazed by their arrival. He was gone…in the middle of a vision. When he returned to the there and then, he looked at Jon curiously. “I thought you were returning to Dragonstone.”

Jon’s eyes flickered towards Sansa before returning to Bran. “Aye, I thought so too. But then I heard the Wall.”

“We all did,” Arya said.

Staring off into the distance, Bran said, “I need to speak to you.”

Jon bit back another grunt of pain. He nodded and leaned against the heart tree.

Bran looked at Sansa and Arya. “Alone,” he said pointedly.

Inhaling sharply, Sansa honed her voice of authority. “We’ll have none of that now. Jon is gravely wounded and he needs rest.” Whatever his relationship with _Dany_ was, it didn’t concern her. The last thing Jon needed in his state was Bran revisiting traumas from his past.

“Sansa, it’s all right.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Bran’s not going anywhere. And I’m assuming you aren’t either. Your chambers are as you left it and you _will_ go to them this instant!” Her voice wavered on the last word, but her point was clear.

“Aye, my lady,” Jon said, lips turning up in a weary smile. He pushed himself off the tree and enlisted Arya’s help to guide him to the Lord’s chambers.

***

Sansa kept to her solar for the rest of day, unless called away, and the following morning. She was writing appeals for more grain from southron houses after her afternoon meal when a soft knock at the door interrupted her.

“Enter.”

In limped Jon, his curls flowing freely down to his shoulders as they did when he was a boy.

“Jon…how are you feeling?” Sansa didn’t trust herself to rise from her seat.

“I’ve been better. Arya took me around the castle to see the new fortifications.” His smile was small and sad. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sansa scoffed. “I can hardly sit at your bedside watching you sleep.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Sansa shuffled her scrolls about, looking busy.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon stumble to the nearby divan. He struggled to meet her eyes. Again. “You were right.”

“I’m right about a lot of things,” she said curtly. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“It was a trap,” he gulped. Ashamed. “They wanted me to bend the knee.”

The blow of his words had her pushing away from her desk. “Is that why she gave you that dragon? Jon, if our bannermen find out, we’ll be facing a rebellion. We don’t have the time or the—”

Eyes glistening, Jon shook his head. He was at a loss for words, but he tried. Even if it took every last bit of his strength. “I meant what I said that day at the Great Hall. The north is my home. It’s part of me and I’ll never stop fighting for it. No matter the odds.” His voice cracked. “No matter the odds.”

“Jon…what did you…” She was on the brink of frightened tears.

The weight of Jon’s unspoken actions hung thick in the hair. Jon’s chest heaved in an attempt to calm himself. Now, alone with Sansa, he dared not tear his gaze away from her. He patted beside him. “Will you sit with me?”

Sansa was too petrified to move.

“Sansa, please,” he begged.

Her body defied her will, and she strode up to him. Tears clung to her lashes. Jon lifted a finger to wipe them away as she sat down, but decided against it. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve done beautifully—as I knew you would. I know it wasn’t easy…Not with everything—with Bran and Arya.”

“I was only doing my duty.” Her lashes shook off the tears, spilling them onto her cheeks. Jon followed the trail they made down to her chin, then off—

Without another word, he ducked his head and lay it on her lap. Hoisting his legs onto the divan, he buried his face in her stomach and gripped the small of her back. Under her confused and timid touch, his shoulders trembled as he sobbed into her dress. He clung to her as though he were a man drowning and she a lone rowboat in the open ocean.

Duty had demanded he be strong this whole time. Take actions no one else would have taken. And through it all, he had been alone. Just like her. He had needed her by his side, just as she had needed him. Because they were meant to be together. Fight together. Protect the north—their very being—together.

There were things he had done she would not like—she knew that from the grief in his words. But now was not the time to broach the matter. With their days together—alive—numbered, only a fool would taint a brief respite with concerns over the endless chaos riddling the world at large. And Sansa Stark was no fool.

For the time being, the man cradled in her arms, bearing his soul to her, was all that mattered. As much, she realized, as she mattered to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, glad I got that out of my system. My heart goes out to bb Sansa these past few episodes. I hope this was a decent exploration of what she might be going through.


End file.
